Chapter 3 #2
My phone rings again, distracting me from sending mental signals for only a moment.
When I silence it again, Gram’s hand finds mine, and Owen throws what I pray is a strike on a full count.
But when the crowd goes wild for the strikeout, I only have eyes for Owen, who’s fallen to the ground clutching his arm.
And not even that endless flight of steps I’ll need to race down could keep me from getting to him.
Owen’s been in surgery for more than two hours now.
Longer than the surgeon anticipated when he explained Owen’s elbow injury and the Tommy John surgery he’d need to repair it.
Generally, Tommy John’s isn’t an emergency procedure, but there was concern after imaging that Owen’s UCL tear is more severe than the surgeons are used to seeing.
So for two, excruciating hours, I’ve been sandwiched between a chatty Lance Breezy and eternally pessimistic Keith Drew, the Badger’s first and third base men, respectively.
Both of whom have yet to shower, having raced directly from the game to show their support with the rest of the team huddled in the OR waiting room.
I’m the cream in the center of a confusing but, admittedly, entertaining Oreo, as Breezy discusses everything from his father’s career in dentistry to his latest dive into internet dating, all while Drew throws less than helpful statistics he reads from WebMD about the long-term effects of Tommy John’s and the possible complications of the surgery my best friend is undergoing.
“You know,” Drew says, eyes never leaving the phone in his hands, “you’ll need to really watch him for blood clots for a few weeks after surgery. It says here they can come on suddenly and without warning.”
“Then how would she know what to look out for?” Breezy leans over my body, hand casually cradling the back of my chair, looking at the info for himself. He gives me a tiny but friendly nudge like he’s on my side.
The Owen is going to be okay, and there’s no way he’ll suffer from long-term nerve damage and the possible loss of his throwing arm camp.
We’re making lemonade with lemons here. It’s almost pleasant.
“Blood clots? Seriously?” Titan curses under his breath.
The gentle giant whose real name I don’t think anyone knows, plays catcher and has been tearfully pacing the waiting room since Owen was taken back, convinced he’s at fault for O’s injury.
He runs his hands through his thick, chin-length hair, and in spite of the seriousness of what’s going on, I can’t help but make a mental note that he’s due for a trim.
“Titan,” Breezy admonishes, “language, dude. Mrs. Jones and Gram are here.”
“Yes, young man,” Gram says, her eyes glued to the newest Lola B.
Reynman romance novel, tone as cheeky as ever.
“I’ve made it almost eighty years without hearing a swear, and I don’t reckon my sensitive, feminine ears could possibly stand to hear another.
Now, please sit down. You’re wearin’ on my nerves. ”
He immediately finds the only open seat, next to Gram, as it happens. “Good boy.” She pats him on the knee, closing her book, then offering it to him with slightly shaking hands. “How ‘bout a little distraction? I think you’d enjoy this.”
Owen’s parents smile wordlessly at Titan, as if to say, “Don’t try to fight it, buddy,” while Winnie, who I know just happened to finish that particular pirate romance, snickers nearby.
She and Danger were working in the flower shop as a favor to Jack and Dinah tonight but rushed over as soon as they were able to close up the store, making it to the hospital in time to pray with the family before Owen was taken back for surgery.
Danger keeps his distance but mirrors Winnie’s every move, gaze following where hers goes, anticipating what she might need. Gram’s right. They’re absolute fools.
The truth of it makes my chest ache.
Over the course of our friendship, Owen and I have faced quite a few hardships together.
The fender bender during senior year, when I called Owen sobbing and shaking, unsure of who else to call as Mom was on her honeymoon to Aruba with Bill, husband number four.
He and his dad showed up before the police did, stepped in to take care of insurance, spoke to the driver of the other vehicle, and prayed with me on the side of Highway 85, much like we prayed with Owen in the hospital hallway tonight.
Then, shortly after, Gramps passed away unexpectedly, and I worried that Owen might never be the same after the loss of his hero. For many dark months, I was by his side, giving Owen space to mourn privately with me while he continued to show up for his family.
He was the only person I ever told the truth behind my mom’s fourth failed marriage.
That Bill, not unlike my biological father, was more attached to alcohol than he was the idea of being married.
And, though he never touched either of us, the scars of his true nature were carved into my mother thereafter.
And I was at the infamous game where Jackson was injured. Then along for every step of the arduous, years-long healing the family walked through. Late-night talks with O as he confessed the ways he missed his brother and the sense of responsibility he felt for the injury.
Years of supporting one another, and yet I’ve foolishly felt in control of each of those situations.
Because we were together. Me and Owen. Against the world.
But sitting in this fabric chair in the too-stuffy room, surrounded by so many people, all I want to do is burst into that operating room and hold Owen’s hand.
“I need coffee,” I announce to the room, popping out of my seat.
Dinah, who’s held Jack’s hand every moment we’ve been in the hospital, looks at me with wisdom in her gaze.
“You need company? We could all go for a walk, right Jacks?” she suggests, squeezing her husband’s hand and calling him the name only she uses for him.
He nods, but his hesitancy tells me he’d rather stay here in case the doctor comes back with news.
He looks so much like his brother did in this waiting room, not so long ago, when it was Jack in surgery and Owen waiting for an update.
“No, no. I can go alone. I’ll grab a couple trays of coffees, okay? Be right back.”
I rush off before anyone can stop me but only make it to the elevator before my phone rings in my back pocket.
Whipping it out, I’m ready to run back to the waiting room if it means someone’s calling with a report from the doctor, but it’s a number I don’t recognize.
One that I now see has attempted to call me three times tonight.
I send it to voicemail, then listen as soon as the caller hangs up, hearing news I definitely wasn’t anticipating tonight.
An invitation to compete on Suite Hearts.